Nothing but Blue Skies (34 page)

The sound system came on, Elton John singing “Daniel.” A few moments later, Federico appeared and set a bottle of wine on the table, saying, “Valpolicella,” pausing to listen to the music and singing along: “Must be the clouds in my eyes.” Federico left
the room and Frank checked his watch. He had a glass of wine. He was to do this several times and actually begin to perspire before Federico returned in triumph. “Il primo!” he said, and placed two dishes on the table. “Spaghettini al carrettiere.” Some kind of spaghetti deal, Frank surmised, and began to eat. He was ravenous already, but this would have made him ravenous. He mumbled respectfully and moved his eyebrows up and down in appreciation. Nice little guy, thought Frank. I guess he’s an Italian.

“I saw the pope on TV here a while back,” said Frank amiably when he finally had an empty mouth.

“That Polack,” said Federico, a sharp pinch appearing in his forehead. “Let’s not talk about him. I mean, kiss my ring, please!”

“This is delicious,” said Frank.

“Yes, it is,” said Federico. He got up and went out to the kitchen. There was some shouting out there, dominated by Federico’s voice. Evidently, he had someone still helping him in the kitchen. Frank shot his cuff and had another look at his watch. He’d been here a long, long time. He drank another glass of wine. He still hadn’t heard how to handle the woman. The wine took the slipperiness off his teeth. He couldn’t understand Federico, but somehow Federico had deprived him of his momentum. The pasta was delicious, but it was more than enough for lunch. It was a sunny day outside; he had really pressing things to do and somehow, increasingly against his will, he was imprisoned in this kitsch grotto waiting for more food. Time seemed to crawl.

At length, Federico reappeared with two more plates and another bottle of wine clamped under his arm. “Il secondo! Fagioli dell’ occhio con salsiccia.”

“I’ve never seen this before,” said Frank, looking at the plate.

“You wanted a cheeseburger?”

“No, no, no. This looks wonderful.” He took an appreciative bite. It
was
wonderful. Federico uncorked the second bottle of wine and refilled their glasses.

“The woman …” Federico mused as he raised his glass to his lips. “She is sitting on a fortune.”

Frank felt a glow go through his head. “How can you be so vulgar?”

He looked down at the beautifully variegated textures of black-eyed peas, plum tomatoes and sausages in olive oil and garlic sauce. He didn’t seem to have any problems and he had quit looking at his watch. He was having a wonderful experiment in sedation. Federico looked twisted all right, but twisted in a fanciful, harmless way, like a gnome.

“Little more vino,” he said.

Frank poured. “Were you born in Italy?” he asked.

“Naw, Roundup.”

“Roundup?”

“Yeah, they got everything in Roundup.” The continental accent was gone. “Major Serb hangout since I don’t know when. And … there was a time when Dean fuckin’ Martin coulda run for mayor.
Hey!
” he shouted.

A voice came back from the kitchen.

“Put on Dean Martin!”

“Look, Federico —”

“Fred. Federico is just my restaurant name.”

“Fred, this has been great —”

“And free.”

“Oh, well, that’s nice, good, thank you. But look, I’ve got to get going now. Really, I’m going to have to eat and run.”

Fred was raising his forefinger in the air, the ball of the first digit now at eye level to Frank. “One thing, Frank.”

“Yes?”

“Before the bank gets involved under a reorganization, why don’t you discount the hell out of your clinic and sell it to me. You know they’re coming. This leaves them holding the bag, what every red-blooded American boy desires.”

Frank was horrified that this information was so general. “Do I know they’re coming?”

“You know they’re coming. I know who you are, Frank. I think you realize that.”

Frank considered the light fog in his brain and decided he could
rise above it. He cleared his dishes to one side of the table and felt things slow down gracefully. He looked across the table, mentally measuring Fred, and said, “Make me an offer.”

Fred had his right elbow on the table and was leaning on his hand. He straightened up and turned the hand so that the palm faced the ceiling. “Where do I start?”

“With an acceptable price. That’s the fastest.”

Fred smiled. “What do
you
think it’s worth?”

“Fred, I can’t buy it and sell it at the same time. Make me an offer.”

“Make you an offer …”

“Yeah, like pull up your Fruit of the Looms and go for it.”

This was getting pretty close to what Frank and his friends in high school referred to as the family jewels. This would shoot right to the heart of a Dean Martin fan.

“I guess we could look at structuring a deal. How would you want this, Frank?”

“In American money.”

Fred leaned on his fist for a moment and then said, “What about five hundred thou?”

Frank said nothing. It was an insulting offer. This guy was primitive. Frank’s hand was rested on the table. He raised it slightly and pointed upward.

Fred smiled and said, “A little dish of spumoni?”

“No thanks. Fred, who told you I might need to sell the clinic?”

“Talk of the town.”

Frank immediately related this to Gracie. That must be an interesting development to her, an antidote to the wearying predictability of the once brilliant businessman. El Floppo. For an instant, Frank saw failure as a way of dancing out ahead. Any creature that goes in a straight line is an invitation to predators. Except that old Fred here was sort of the predator.

“Did you see in the paper where Pepsi is coming out with a see-through cola?” Fred asked.

“They’re gonna fall on their ass,” said Frank.

“I agree,” said Fred, “but you know, colas are naturally clear.”

“Huh.”

“Little known fact. They add the coloring. I saw this VIP from Coke, cornered by reporters. He was yelling, ‘We have no plans to market a clear Tab!’ He looked like the wolves had him. He was shakin’ in his boots. I kinda felt sorry for him.”

“How’s anybody going to know this stuff’s clear?” Frank asked. “They going to pour it out on the ground?”

“The product’s gonna be in bottles, not cans.”

“Oh.”

Fred eased his checkbook out of his inside coat pocket. Frank smiled amiably, but it was camouflage. Fred had no way of knowing that this sale wouldn’t even meet the mortgage. Frank was trying to remember how these things were cross-collateralized — the hotel, the mini-storage, the office equipment and so on. He remembered reading that the boa constrictor doesn’t actually squeeze you to death but simply takes up the slack when you exhale or relax and never lets you get it back. Result?
Mort
. At the same time, contemplating the loss, Frank had the thought, This isn’t quite registering. He tried to picture a soup kitchen. It was like dabbling in failure.

Fred said, “You want my guy to prepare the closing?”

“There isn’t going to be a closing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Frank. There’s gonna be a closing.”

It was happening. The snake was taking up slack. You could have whatever you wanted, but you couldn’t take a breath.

As Frank walked up Main Street, he reflected that recent history had shown that business failure and political disgrace were reliable preludes to spiritual awakening. Maybe I have that to look forward to, thought Frank. He was standing in front of a shop that sold stereo systems. They had Vivaldi and Tina Turner in the window and a display showing a man slumped in a large armchair, holding on for dear life, his hair blown back, all by the power of his sound system. He wondered why everything was crazy juxtapositions, cartoons or exaggerations these days. He wondered why his career was up in the blue and he was running around trying to field it like a pop fly.

There before him was Karl Hammersgard, the baseball coach, who had a cigarette centered in his teeth. He was shorter than Frank, but he bent back from the waist to talk rather than bend his head at the neck. This was one way short people looked up to taller people without appearing like they were looking up a stovepipe. A car pulled alongside them and parked. Frank caught the blue oval and the word “Ford” in the corner of his eye.

“Where’ve you been, anyway?” said Karl Hammersgard.

“I’ve been around.”

“You have? Maybe I just haven’t been paying attention. I saw Gracie. Is there … what.”

“Is there what?”

“Anything cooking?”

“Not with me, Karl. Alas.”

“Alas, huh?”

“Well, semi-alas.”

“I think it’s alas, old pal.”

“Maybe it is, Karl. I’m one of those guys you read about who’s not really in touch with his feelings.”

“Hey, me either. I don’t want to be in touch with my feelings. What a can of worms!”

“You said it. Say, what about Dick Hoiness? You see Dick Hoiness?”

“Frank, I seen Dick Hoiness about four days ago. Dick has really took off, got his own office, got a new car. I’m proud of him. Isn’t it something? He was the worst of all you hippies.”

After Frank continued down the sidewalk, he thought about Fred. It was Fred’s turn to hoard. And Dick Hoiness’s. I’m not going to hoard anymore, he told himself, no matter what.

He used the side door of his office to avoid any awkwardness with Lucy at the travel agency. There was a note from Eileen saying that she had quit and asking him to call. He called and got a recitation of events in which Eileen tried to be fair-minded, but she spoke in a sardonic tone about her need for a predictable atmosphere, a world that was not changing daily. She said that she would be willing to work on a contract basis, some bookkeeping and some typing, if that was needed. Frank thought that it might well be. He thanked her for many years of service, and when he got off the phone, he felt immediate relief to have the office to himself. He began to work at his desk. The bills and letters were hopelessly mixed up; so were the incomprehensible wads from the tax assessor, who was just now coming into season. He found himself reading the unsolicited mail; not just Victoria’s Secret but also ham catalogues, tool catalogues, garden catalogues, sporting equipment catalogues, video catalogues, salmon products catalogues, fun things for kids catalogues, self-help catalogues. There were many things to buy. It was desolating.

He was surprised that, in view of his personal problems, he was so interested in the slowed sales growth of diet colas. He remembered 1982 as the year Diet Coke came on line, and 1984 as the year Diet Coke went to NutraSweet. His life must not have been perfect then, but now it was seriously imperfect and he focused on Clearly Canadian as the first beverage to identify some of the new energies out there, with mountain blackberry and orchard peach sodas sold in blue glass bottles that were heavy in the hand. A Pepsi spokesman stated in the
Wall Street Journal
that his company was not going to sit on the sidelines and watch the New Age go by without their participation. Besides, Pepsi was trying to find the right spin for their spokesperson Michael Jackson’s relentlessly grabbing his dick in his latest video. In a surprise move, Kraft, a division of Philip Morris, was testing canned cappuccino in Arizona. Frank sighed at these national battles, thinking of his reduction to hotel keeper for chickens. He didn’t feel that visiting these chickens with dick in hand would produce a national news conference and exploding chicken sales or he would have headed on over there and gotten down to business.

Someone was stirring around in the front office. Frank folded his paper and called out, “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Dad?”

“Holly? Hol, is that you?”

Frank went into the front office, once occupied by the hugely appreciated Eileen. Holly was standing there with her old high school girl grin. She was wearing a snap-button shirt and jeans with a scarf through the belt loops. The effect of the costume was a bit more “western” than Frank was accustomed to. He gave her a hug. Then she followed him into his office and allowed him to pull up a chair for her.

Holly had moved back into town. She was taking a semester off to be with Lane Lawlor. This was better for Lane’s contacts in the range livestock industry, and Lane felt he had timber products well covered. He was working as a lobbyist for “some people.” Frank tried to ask mildly, “Which people?” but it came out a little strong. They settled for “people.” Frank was seething.

“Have you seen Mama?”

“I have seen Mama,” said Frank.

“And?”

“We were, well, we had an unsuccessful luncheon.”

“An argument?”

“No, we just couldn’t get waited on. Then I got annoyed, and you know how she is about me being annoyed.”

“But that touches me.”

“What does, Hol?”

“You blowing your stack, Mama annoyed.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, in that sense it was like old times.”

Frank tried to make a couple of stacks of paper on his desk.

“Do you miss those times, Dad?”

“Every day,” Frank said.

“You do?”

“I do. I miss a lot of things. I miss you. My life is not in very good order.”

“I know.”

“Well, see, that embarrasses me too.”

“Don’t let it.”

“Some things get out of reach.” He was thinking that her proclivity for Lane Lawlor didn’t help.

“We read in the paper about your putting chickens in the Kid Royale Hotel.”

“Desperate strokes for desperate folks.”

“But Dad, where did that idea come from?”

“I didn’t originate it. They’ve done it in the East for years with old hotels. They’re really perfect chicken coops on an industrial scale. We think we can make money. It was a partnership I needed. I can’t really afford to restore the place.” Frank was conscious of talking too much. He could scarcely depict his pleasure in covering romance, from honeymoons to the Old West, with a thin layer of leveling chickenshit. He didn’t want to burrow around in all this anyway. He wanted to go fishing with Holly. He thought that if he couldn’t, he would suddenly die.